Thorin's First Night
by kkolmakov
Summary: What else is there to say? Yes, that very first night :D Enjoy, my lovelies! *No Infringement Intended*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: After the psychological trauma of the story I will not mention here (this one is too special for me, the King and his Zundush to even mention another man, and also I'm still tearing up after the last chapter :S), I finally decided to venture into the description of the night you all have asked about! **

**Since it was mentioned and talked around so many times, some of you might have some memories and your own ideas of what happened. Please, in your reviews share what seemed memorable and what you imagined, and then see how it unravels in the story :)**

He is sitting at a table, a mug of ale in front of him, large hand swirling a small shiny object on the table. You take another step down the stairs and understand that it is the clasp from his cloak. The dinner is untouched in front of him, brows frowned, curved lips pressed together sternly.

You are suddenly trembling, your skin hot and cold at the same time, and you put your hand on the rails to support yourself. This is the last evening, they are leaving for Erebor tomorrow. Most of his warriors are healed, and he has nothing to do in Dale. Just as he has nothing to do in the common room of your inn, but nonetheless, there he is.

You exhale sharply and decisively go down the stairs. You approach his table and slip on the bench in front of him. He jerks and stares at you. His brows hike up. You are behaving inappropriately. You do not care.

"My lord," you lick your lips. He slightly tilts his head in a familiar mocking gesture. "Honourable healer," his voice is rumbling low, and you press your knees together under the table. You are so desperately in love with him that he could be reading draught recipes, and you would be aroused. To think of it, combining these two pleasures would probably make you burst into flames.

You are desperately looking for something to say, he is smiling a small derisive smile, and one of his brows is slowly crawling up. It is black, smooth, just like the beard you are dying to touch, and the two thick braids on the sides of his face. And his chest hair, as you were unfortunate to find out when tending to his wounds you had to cut the tunic on him. You gulp.

The pause stretches, and he takes a sip from his mug. "Can I offer something, honourable healer? Some ale, perhaps?" You shake your head. Your eyes fall on his plate, and he slightly pushes it towards you with his index finger. You pick up a piece of apple and bite into it.

And then you realize that he is staring at your mouth. The revelation is so inconceivable that you doubt your sanity. Then his eyes move to your nose, examine the freckles, and he is finally looking straight into your eyes. And something in you snaps.

You throw the apple back on his plate, get up and stretch your hand to him in a clear invitation. Your palm is open. He is looking at it, his lips slightly open, a strange little smile on them, his eyes soft, and then he gets up, and puts his large hand into yours. You start walking to the stairs pulling him after yourself. He is following, willingly but unhurriedly. You are walking up the stairs and feel his eyes on your nape and shoulder blades. Your back covers in goosebumps, and you shiver.

You stop in front of your room and have to let go of his hand to look for the key in the pockets of your skirt. He is standing still, his massive arms hanging along his body, his eyes on the back of your head. You can almost feel the warmth on the skin that you know his body is emanating. You slightly turn your head and look at him from the corner of your eye. There is a strange mixture of tenderness and peevishness on his face. You unlock the room and step aside letting him in. He enters, you follow and lock the door behind you.

He swirls around after hearing the lock click, and his blue are fixed on your face, cautious and sharp. You gulp, but you already forgot all reason by now. You make a big step ahead and place your hand on the silver buckle of his belt. The brows jump up again. You know you are behaving rashly, but you have your decision, and you will not yield.

You mentally tell yourself to slow down and enjoy this moment. He might halt you or plainly reject you at any moment. Your head is swimming, and your mouth is dry. You hear strange ringing in your ears, and throwing all caution aside you pull the buckle. Its clank seems deafening in the quiet room, and you are left with a heavy belt clenched in your hand. He sharply inhales.

You momentarily think that he is dressed in so many layers that if he does not rush out of your room right away but in twenty minutes, you will have plenty of time to savour what is happening now, until you get to the terrifying part. His eyes are on the belt, and then he looks at you again. You drop it on the floor, lift your hands and push his velvet waistcoat off his shoulders. Both of you follow it onto the floor with your eyes.

You suddenly realize that he has not moved since he stepped into your room, and you bite your bottom lip in mortification. What in the name of Maiar are you doing?! At what point will he step away from you, berate you for inappropriate behaviour and leave your room in disdain? And then his large palms lie on your shoulders, and he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It is gentle and chaste, and he closes his eyes, while you are cheating and peek.

And the realization that you are being kissed by Thorin Oakenshield floods you, and the flurry of sensations erupts in your head. You moan and wrap your arms around his neck. His hands jump onto your waist, there is something endlessly endearing in how tentative and gentle his movements are. The hot palms are burning your skin through the fabrics of the dress and the undertunic, and you deepen the kiss, open your mouth wider, and then push his lips to open with your tongue.

You two have kissed before, in Erebor, in the middle of the battle, and you internally agree with what you thought then. He has no experience in kissing a woman. He is a quick learner though, and obviously has not forgotten what transpired in the pantry. He slightly tilts his head and sucks in your bottom lip. Maiar help you, you are going to light up like that firework they call Dwarf candles.

You place your hands on the sides of his face, and it takes an immense amount of willpower not to whimper in ecstasy. You can finally feel the roughness of the black beard, you tread your fingers through it, your thumbs rub his cheekbones, and he suddenly bites into your bottom lip. You gasp, and he immediate moves away. "Forgive me..." His voice is gruff, this is the first thing he said since he offered you a drink, "The beard is sensitive..."

Your hands are still on his face, and you scratch it gently with the tips of your fingers and short nails. He closes his eyes in an astonishing imitation of what cats do when you scratch them behind an ear. Apparently, the beard is indeed sensitive. You feel light-headed and suddenly very brave. You lean in and kiss him yourself. This time you take your time and savour it. His breath is fresh, and he slightly tastes of ale he has been drinking. The smell of his skin is earthy, grassy and spicy, and your head swims.

One of the large palms lies on your back, on the shoulder blades. The second one is still hanging impassively along his body, you pick it up and place it on your waist. Perhaps, slightly below, and his fingers twitch on the curve of your lower back. You press into him more, and the hand slides from your back into your hair. His fingers meet the braid there, and suddenly he growls. It is such an unexpected sound that you still in his hands.

He moves away, and you have a good look at his face. The pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed, and remarkably he looks even more irritated than before. You momentarily wonder if he is even enjoying what is happening. "Could you?..." His voice is tender though, and he touches your braid with the tips of his fingers, and you nod. You pull out the pins and untwist the plait from around your head. You untangle it with your fingers, and the hair scatters around your head and on your shoulders in commotion of curls.

Suddenly he smiles gently and pushes both his hands into them His fingers graze the back of your head, making you shiver, and he treads them through, letting the copper strands run between them. You bite into your bottom lip. His eyes follow the ringlets, and there is still this small smile on his lips.

You feel suddenly bashful, and your cheeks are burning. All your courage is gone, and you feel cold. He places his hands on your shoulders again and tries to look into your eyes, but you lowered your face and are staring at the floor. "Wren..." Your eyes fly up, and you give him a shaky smile. He presses his mouth to yours, and then his lips slide on your jaw and proceed lower, to your neck. You tilt your head, and you feel him exhale into your skin.

"Have you ever been with a woman, my lord?" He grows still, his lips on the frantic pulse on your throat, and you hold your breath in horror. You do not know why you asked and where the boldness came from, and you are mortified. He straightens up and lifts his chin. He looks very haughty, and you guess the answer to your question. "Is it that obvious?" "No, it is not! That is not why I asked," you rush to reassure him, "I seem to have heard something about the Dwarven traditions..." He nods, and then shakes his head. You stare at him in confusion.

He chuckles, "You heard right, and no, I have not." His back is very straight, and he seems to almost be daring your to commentate on his confession. You are not certain what you feel, so you do what seems the most natural in this situation. You throw your arms around his neck and greedily kiss him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yes, ****RagdollPrincess****, you are right. There was tearing of clothes, there was biting, there were oh so many rounds (ehehehe :P seven to be precise :P), and indeed our King is a very investigative Dwarf. Anybody else wants to remind me of something specific? ;D**

His hands lie on your waist, and you moan into his mouth. It seems to encourage him, and the grip on you tightens. And you finally do what you dreamt about so many times and push your hands into his glorious mane. The hair, though thick and disheveled, is surprisingly soft, and you grab generous handfuls. And then feeling very greedy, you push your fingers deeper, and the tips of your fingers touch a copper band in them. It is locked around a thick lock of his ebony strands. Your other hand runs into another braid hidden in the mass of his waves. It is so unusual and so arousing that you lose all heedfulness and press your body into him head to toe.

He emits some sort of a choked noise, slightly moves away and presses his forehead to yours. You can see he is breathing heavily. And then you panic at the thought that he might decide to retract. You are not going to let him! You grab the hem of his brigandine on his hips and jerk it up. Since his hands were on your shoulders, you achieve very little success, but your intention is quite obvious. He is still and stares you in the eyes. It feels as if you are playing chess, and it is his move now.

He lifts his arms, and you pull it off. How many layers is he covered in? The tunic underneath is velvet, embroidered, swan-necked, tiny buttons going down on the front. You inhale and touch the top one with your fingers. He suddenly covers your hands with a large hot palm.

"Have you ever been with a man, honourable healer?" He is raspy. You feel your cheeks burning, and you nod without looking at him. And then he makes a little noise, and you lift your eyes to see what it is. He is smirking lopsidedly. Apparently the King Under the Mountain just snorted at you. "You do not seem very confident, my lady. Has it been that long ago?" The nerve in him! You are so astonished by the mischief and mirth gleaming in his eyes that you forget yourself and smack his chest. And then freeze petrified by your own boldness.

You both are staring at your hand pressed over his heart. And then he picks it and pulls it to his lips. He presses a hot kiss to your palm, and you feel your inner walls clench. And then he slightly bites into your flesh at the base of your thumb. Such sensual action is so unexpected that you whimper. He lifts his brilliant icy eyes at you, his mouth still on your palm. Whatever he sees in your face makes him smile into your skin and bite again.

You lift your other hand and grab his ear. For the life of you, you do not know why you did it, but his large ears have been fascinating you for a while. You gently rub the helix and the lobe between your thumb and index finger, and it immediately starts burning. So not just the beard, the ears too. You shift and have a look at another, equally red ear. He puffs some air as if to show disdain, but you can see his cheekbones are flushed as well. Is he embarrassed of his big Dwarven ears? Because you find them adorable. You take away your hand and give the second one the same attention.

Something rumbles deep inside his chest, and he presses his mouth to yours. He seems to be getting increasingly more confident, and one of his palms lies on the top of your buttock. Your whole body is so sensitive by now that you can almost feel the imprint of his palm on your skin like a brand. You consider asking him to put the second one somewhere there as well, but then you feel it on the lacing on the back of your dress. Even better!

As you already know, Dwarven fingers are surprisingly deft, and he quickly finds the hidden end of the string. There is a pause, his lips are moving on yours, and then he pulls. He is too eager, and it slips out fully, and he is left with it in his hand. The back of your dress opens, and his hand lies on the gausy material of the undertunic. You cannot silence a moan.

You push yourself from him and start quickly opening the buttons on his tunic, internally thanking the years of practicing surgery for your dextrosity. It opens up, and you push it off his shoulders. There is still another shirt underneath, but the heat and the intoxicating smell of his skin radiate from him, and you bite into your bottom lip.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your jaw, and then your ear, and then an open mouthed one on your neck. You drop your head back and grab his ears again. And then his hands lie on your shoulders and twitch on the neckline of your dress. You hold your breath. Will he dare pushing it down? The palms slide on your back again. You chuckle, and he slightly nips the skin on your neck in retaliation. You knees are weak, although you always thought it is just a figure of speech.

"Perhaps..." You wince from the squeakiness of your own voice, "Perhaps we should sit..." Let us be honest, you meant lie down, but just could not bring yourself to pronounce it. He halts, and you step back from him. You realize the two of you have been standing in the middle of your dim room for quite a while now, the sun is setting, and it is almost dark.

You decisively walk to your desk and light the lamp. He is still at the same spot, and you take a deep calming breath in. And then you sit down on the edge of your bed and pat the covers near you. There is a moment of hesitation, but then he makes a couple wide steps and sits near you. His large hands are on his knees, and he has this amusing expression on his face. It is half eager and anticipative, and half irked again.

You tilt your head. Since you have been shamelessly ogling him at any given opportunity for months now, you have learnt the small twitches and jerks of his features. Although to some his face might seem reserved and dispassionate, you see a small fluttering of the lashes and tense corners of his lips. The King is nervous and, as you have just learnt to recognise the signs, he is very much affected by your closeness.

And then you give him a small smile and lean in. You halt an inch away from his lips and let him make a step. His large palm cups your face, and he meets you, his eyes closing, and the other arm wrapping around your middle. He pulls you closer, and you scoot on the bed. For a few minutes you two are kissing, and now his hands are roaming your back. One of them slides under the open half of the dress and grazes your side. You jerk.

He is kissing your neck, and you tilt your head. And then you notice that he is murmuring something. It is Khuzdul, and you try to concentrate. It rather difficult, his hot lips slide up and down your tendons, he is becoming bolder, you feel his tongue tentatively slip on your skin, and your thoughts jumble. You hear "gehye" and "fillith", and you blush in pleasure. He is comparing your skin to feathers of a white dove. You feel especially giddy since he does it not knowing you understand him. It is not a ploy of seduction, but a pure expression of his admiration.

His palm slides at the back of your neck, fingers encircle it, his scorching body moves closer, another arm around your waist, and he is holding you, slightly slanting you to his convenience. He is more and more daring, he pushes the collar of your undertunic with his nose, and his lips are on your collarbone. Then his mouth is back on your neck, and he bites into the tender skin there. You gasp, he is sucking, and surely there will be a mark there tomorrow.

You grab handfuls of his hair and pull gently. He lifts his face, and you see giant black pupils and slightly swollen lips. Keeping your eyes locked, you take his hands off your body and, painfully biting your lips, you pick up the bottom of his shirt. There is a smile dancing in his eyes, and he lifts his arms. They are massive, and for a second you are flooded by the realization of the enormous strength residing in this body, and then the shirt flies on the floor.

You are frozen in front of his naked torso, he is sitting still. It takes all your willpower to tear your eyes from the wide chest, the bulging pectoral muscles, the thick black hair, and numerous white scars, oh Maiar, help you… You lift your eyes, and see a smug smirk on his lips. Cantankerous, self-assured, conceited… That will not do.

You grab the shoulders of your dress and pull them down. The bodice pools around your waist, and he loudly sucks in air. The undertunic is sheer, your teats are tense and protruding, and his eyes are fixed on the small peaks. You shortly wonder if he has ever seen a naked woman. Probably, virgin or not, he has travelled a lot, and surely there were encounters. Common bathrooms and such. And then you momentarily question your sanity. There is a half naked man sitting in front of you, and you are musing on the bathroom organization around the world.

You lift your hand and hesitantly touch him with the tips of your fingers. He hisses, you have cold hands. You jerk it back, "Forgive me..." He suddenly guffaws, and you lift your brows at his unrestrained merriment. "Please, do feel free to continue," his tone is impish, and he is smiling. You press the whole palm to his sternum, where the hair is especially thick, and tread your fingers through it. And then you smile back, wrap the second arm around his neck, and catch his mouth. He embraces you, and you are once again astonished on how much warmer his skin is. As if there is a fire burning in him, he is scorching, and you are enveloped in his heat. Through just the thin gauzy fabric of your undertunic, his chest and arms are charring.

He pulls you even closer, you are almost sitting on his lap, and then he suddenly picks you up under your arms and puts you on your feet in front of him. For a moment you are looking down at him in confusion, while he is staring at your breasts that ended up right in front of his long nose. And then he blinks and lifts his face to you. "I presume you will not be needing your dress, honourable healer?" You are very much enjoying his merry smile, you have never seen it before this night. There are small wrinkles in the corners of his gleaming eyes. You chuckle and push the dress down to the floor. The undertunic only reaches mid thigh.

He carefully places his palms on your waist and pulls you closer. You step out of the dress, and then your libido emits an undoubtedly Dwarven battle cry, and you push yourself into him. There is an instant when you see his remarkable eyes widen, and then the two of you are falling on the bed.

You are splayed on top of him, every possible inch of your bodies is touching, and something you never allowed yourself to even think about is rudely reminded to you. Dwarves are much more generously endowed than Men. Maiar help you, what are you going to do with all this opulence?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey, ****dearreader****, their very first meeting is described in "Thorin's Return to Shire" chapter 8 and their second in Word of the Day #16.**

**A/N#2: Note to everyone :D There is a fic (which is not a fic:) "****Thorin's Timeline,****" which is just a timeline of the main events in all the stories, and I updated it recently. But feel free to ask for clarification! :)**

You remember the endlessly indecent song that Thea tends to hum, _None but the brave deserves the fair, _and you grab his ears and kiss him. He grasps handfuls of your undertunic on your shoulder blades, and there is this rumbling in his chest again. You know it probably sounds like growling, but when you are spread on his wide scorching chest, your breasts pressed into the hot skin through the gauzy material, the vibrations transferred into your body, it feels like purring.

He bends one leg, and suddenly you are somewhat straddling his thigh and it is pressed between your legs. You moan and slightly shift your hips. Maiar, help you, you might reach your release right now! That is quite a stratagem for a man without any carnal experience! And then you realize it is unintentional, he is just trying to roll you over. You let him, and he is looming over you.

He lifts his torso and supports it on one elbow, while his eyes are roaming your body. The undertunic hiked up from your movements and is bunched up on your waist. His gaze falls on your drawers, and you berate yourself. You should have listened to Thea. Your undergarments are endlessly plain, the drawers reach your knees, no lace, just dull white linen. Thea has chiffon, and silk, and dimity, and bodices are lacy and inviting, some of her drawers are as short as only covering her buttocks. His palm lies on your stomach over the fabric of the undergarment, and all thoughts vacate your head.

He gives you a mischievous smile, and his teeth sink into the soft bottom lip. Oh Maiar, you have never seen anything more alluring! He picks up the string on the low collar and pulls at it. You are smiling back at him. His brows twitch, and you hold your breath. You learnt to recognize this little twitch as an indication of some internal decision being reached in his mind.

He lowers his lips on yours and decisively slides his palm under the hem of your chemise. His hot palm meets your skin, and your whole body jolts. His hand is so large, that while his fingers are on your ribs, his thumb gently strokes your solar plexus. You run your tongue on his upper lip, and your hand lies on his chest. You stroke the hard muscles there, feeling the ridges of scars under the pulps of your fingers, the hair an exquisite treat, thick and coarse.

His hand slides higher and brushes the underside of your breast. You gasp into his mouth and involuntarily dig your nails into his skin. He hisses, and you jerk it back. He mumbles something into your lips. You move away and look into his eyes questioningly. He drops his head and presses his mouth to your neck. Is he hiding a blush? "Do it again..." Did you actually hear it or you imagined his low raspy whisper? There is only one way to find out.

You inhale gathering your courage and press your palm into his chest. And then rake your fingers down the rock hard pectoral muscles and graze the abdomen. An impressive shudder runs through his body, and he nips your skin painfully. Was that a moan? That was definitely a moan.

And them his palm covers your breast, and it is your turn to make noise. You are ashamed to confess, yours sounds more like a sob. He freezes and then lifts his face. You should not be laughing, but he has such a cautious, slightly frightened expression, that you cannot help it. You giggle, and he frowns. He is obviously not used to be unpractised in anything, and definitely he is not used to being laughed at. He looks peevish, and you start shaking with laughter harder. It is probably hysterics.

He starts pulling the hand out, but you press your both palms over it through the undertunic, halting him. "Forgive me, my lord, I was not laughing at you. I am just..." You cannot find the right word. He haughtily lifts a brow. And that is when you decide that openness is the best policy. "Giddy, I am giddy. Could you please put it back?" You are blushing, but you give him a shy smile.

His fingers twitch on your ribs, and then he pushes the hand under your back and pushes you to sit up. He rises himself and gently picks up the hem of the undertunic. He glances at you, and you nod. You lift your arms, and he slowly pulls it up. His fingers graze your back, and you exhale sharply.

The undertunic gets tangled around your shoulders, your elbow stuck in its short sleeve, and he puffs some air in irritation. He jerks it up couple more times, but it would not go. He lets it go and moves away from you. You pull the hem back down and look at him. He is so irked that you can even see knots of muscles on his jaws.

"Would you please take it off yourself, honourable healer?" The tone is annoyed. You are not going to let him wallow in his feeling of inadequacy and being grumpy about it. He is obviously brooding. You want him, and you want him to enjoy it. It is not a competition, and you do not need a demonstration of skills. You lift your chin.

"No," your tone is firm, and he exhales angrily. He is glaring at you, but you do not yield. He is pondering you for a moment and then gives you a dark smirk. He grabs the hem again. He jerks it up, and you think your hear the fabric rip. You open your mouth to object, but the chemise flies across the room, and your naked chest is exposed to his eyes. You gasp and stare at him. His eyes are fixed on your small peaks, and you bite into your bottom lip from acute shyness. He has a strange expression, and you feel blush rising all over your body. Is he disappointed?

He tentatively stretches his hand and cups your left breast. You gulp, and he lifts his eyes at you. And then his thumb brushes the teat, and your eyes close against your will. The shivers of pleasure runs through your body, and then you feel his lips and his beard on the collarbone above another breast. He is slowly exploring the skin there, lips and tongue sliding on your skin, and you moan loudly, dropping your head back.

His lips close over the hard nipple, and you whimper. He obviously has learnt by now that it is not a sound of displeasure, and you feel his tongue experimentally touch the pink teat. Your head is spinning, and all you want is more.

You grab his ears and falling backwards on the bed, you pull him down with you. He is more than willing to oblige, his lips leaping to your neck, to the collar bones, to the breast again, peppering kisses, quicker and quicker, hot, open mouthed. He is supporting himself on his right elbow, while the left hand slides under your shoulder blades again, lifting you to his greedy mouth. You feel a scorching lick run along your ribs, and you cry out, grabbing handfuls of his hair.

Both breasts receive an equal amount of attention, his lips, his tongue, and eventually his teeth, gentle but thorough, exploring and so obviously enjoying them, that you are moaning loudly. He is murmuring into your skin again. _Ghivashel, esujer, umuhud… _Treasure of treasure? Really? And something about lure and glory. Your friend Estel was right, men do have diverse tastes. You never thought there is any allure in your hardly noticeable breasts and bony angles. So the breasts then, not the backside. But on the other hand, maybe he has not gotten to it yet. If he seems so enticed with them, maybe your skinny bum will also be to his liking.

You realize that he was restraining himself, but now that his control is slipping he is like an eruption of a fire mountain, hot devastating lava flooding you, overwhelming you, and you do not want his reserve and composure.

You press your palms into his back and, remembering the previous experience, you rake his skin with your nails. His mouth is on your shoulder, and he bites into it with a throaty moan. You grab his ears and push him down, towards your breasts again. His left hand covers the small peak, and you arch into him. He pulls another teat into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it, and you are whining.

One of your legs wraps around him, and he takes his hand off you and presses it into the covers. He lifts his upper body above you, his mouth still on your skin, and slides down, hot open mouthed kisses going between your breasts, on your stomach and then he is still, his nose pressed into the waist of your drawers.

He kisses the skin above the edge of the fabric and then slides his tongue along it. It looks so much as if he is sampling the taste that you impulsively press your knees together. Your legs are caught in the cage of his massive arms, bent in elbows and supporting his weight, and he looks up at you.

You stretch your hands to him, and he moves up, his heavy body covering you for the first time. You spread your knees, making room for him, and his eyes are shining. He presses his lips to yours in a passionate kiss, and you allow your hands explore his upper body. The muscles move under the scorching skin on his back when he tilts his head and moves his mouth to your neck, you stroke the broad shoulders, and slide your palms around the waist, narrow for a Dwarf. You forgot the bliss of a large male body weighing on you. Perhaps, you have never known it.

Your fingers brush his ribs, and he jerks. The King Under the Mountain is ticklish, and you feel ecstatic. A smug thought comes to your mind that you might be the only person in the world to know it. You feel coltish and brave and run the tips of your fingers along the waist of his breaches. He exhales into your neck. You tickle, he chuckles.

And then he chokes on his laughter, when you pick up the strings on his trousers and pull at them. You know if you allow yourself to think for even an instant, you will be terrified, so you squeeze your eyes and push your hand down the open fly of his breeches. The tips of your fingers bump into hot flesh in there, and he groans.

His member is constrained in them, bend under an obviously uncomfortable angle, and you exhale sharply. You have a speck of courage left, and you need to use it wisely. You push your hand further, wrap your fingers around his shaft and release his erection to freedom. He drops his head on your shoulder and emits a long raspy moan. It encourages you, and you push the waist of his breeches down. And then in a spur of strange inventiveness you bend your legs and push the trousers all the way down with your feet. His eyes fly to yours, and the shock in them is the best reward. You smile to him smugly. And then remember that now you will have to deal with the beast you have unbound, and you gulp in mortification.


	4. Chapter 4

His forehead is pressed into your naked shoulder, and the hot exhales burn your skin. He supporting himself on his elbows, taking deep sharp breaths, eyes closed. One on your palms is on the back of his neck, another on his waist, and you are frozen. You used up all your boldness on pulling his member out of half open trousers, and now you are mortified.

He slowly opens his eyes and stares at you. Suddenly you feel annoyed. Surely, he does not expect you to lead even now. He is naked and on top of you, in the name of Orome, the Lord of Forests! Or should you start praying to Mahal, the Creator of the Dwarves? He gulps and suddenly smiles openly and affectionately.

"You are the experienced one, my lady. How do we proceed now?" Your brows jump up in disbelief. Is he jesting? Apparently, since the corners of his lips are twitching and you seem to hear a small chuckle. All you hesitancy evaporates, and you smile in return. And then wrap your fingers around his member. You are rewarded with his eyes closing and the most beautiful expression of his face. His lips slightly open, and a low growl rumbles in his chest.

You slide your finger along his length and attempt to silence panicked yelling of your inner voice in your head that is screaming that such length and girth will probably kill you. At least cripple you for a week, or possibly two.

The skin is hot and smooth, and it is magnificent. You were unfortunate enough to see plenty of phalli in your life, and not in the most favourable of circumstances. Wounded warriors, common bathroom in Gondor's guard infirmary, the water is commonly cold in there, plenty of patients with lovers diseases… Your hand slides up and down the impressive shaft, and he is obviously trying to control his breathing. Never in your life have you expected to find yourself admiring the appearance of a male organ, and here you are twisting your neck and trying to have a better look.

"Would you like to change our positions so you can observe better?" His tone is sarcastic, and your eyes fly to his face. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are mischievous. You blush, but there is the warm luscious skin under your fingers, and you are burning. "Yes, please," you also have an acidic tone, and he chuckles. And then rolls on his back. Oh, Maiar, he is majestic!

You sit up near him on the bed and give him a determined look over. Your thoughts jumble, and you jump at him, straddle his legs above his knees and press your palms into his chest. He slightly lifts his torso, and now he is leaning back on his bent elbows and lifts a brow. You rake the chest with your nails and dive in, pressing your greedy mouth to his collarbones. And then you proceed sliding down, exploring him with your tongue and lips, nipping on the scorching skin occasionally, your palms roaming the muscles, running through the hair. It is thick, like a fur of some exquisite small animal, and he is moaning, falling back on the sheets, and then he yelps when you bite into his stomach exceptionally hard.

You feel intoxicated, some sort of carnal frenzy overwhelms you, and your head is spinning. You want to touch, to taste, you are greedy and almost mad, and do not notice anything until when sliding down him you bump your cheek into the tip of his member. His whole body jolts. "Mahal, help me..." He proceeds to mutter something in Khuzdul but you are too far gone to bother with translation.

You encircle the base of his shaft with your fingers. Well, at least you attempt, your hand is too small to close around it. Or is it too large? Oh, Maiar it is. What are you to do? You decide to worry about it later and lean down.

His large hand flies up and presses into your shoulder, not allowing you to bend down. "No..." You lift your eyes at look into the burning blue irises. "I know of that… And no..." You shake your head to clear the fervent buzzing mist in it. Is it some sort of Dwarven custom that you almost broke? You lick your lips, astonished yourself that you are painfully disappointed. You seem to recollect to detest doing it all those years ago, and now you feel like screaming from the letdown.

"Not for the first time..." He is looking at your almost pleadingly, and you rejoice. Firstly, you will still have a chance, and secondly, how many times does he have in mind? You slide on the bed near him and he rolls onto you, lips press to yours, one hand sliding under your back, another lying on your breasts. He is rubbing the peak with his thumb again, and you arch into his palm. His fingers hook on the waist of your drawers, and you lift your hips. He is kissing your stomach now, and then suddenly he chuckles into your skin. It tickles, and your pelvis drops on the sheets. "Such a lovely colour…" His fingers stroke your hipbones. "How low does this blush go?" His voice is low and seductive, and you internally send your gratitudes to all Valar for the King's quickness of learning.

Suddenly his lips are on the waist of your drawers and then the even, white teeth grab the linen, and he is pulling them down. You are too astonished to do anything but stare at the impish smile on his lips, and his deft fingers assist, and the undergarment flies to the floor.

You squeak and press your knees together. You should not be embarrassed, you wanted it yourself, but you just cannot help it. He is looming over your legs, his legs hanging from the edge of the bed, you both are naked, and you start shaking. You bite into your bottom lip and close your eyes in terror. You try to remind yourself that it was you who led him here, you are the one who has been yearning for him for months, but nothing helps. You feel tears rising, and you berate yourself. Stupid, stupid, Wren, cease it right this moment! Nothing works.

And then his large hands gently lie on your hips, and his lips are pressed on your stomach, right above the curls, and you hold your breath. He kisses you again, stroking your thighs, and you peek. There is a small tender smile on his lips that he is probably not even aware of, and he lifts his eyes.

"Can I?.." You blink. What exactly is he asking about? "I have never…" He clears his throat, "Have never seen…" There is an equally furious blush burning above his beard, mirroring the pink spreading all over your body. All you can do is nod, exhale loudly and slightly spread your legs. You will yourself to relax, but it is nearly impossible when the eyes of the King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield fall on your vulva. Oh Valar, help you…

He lifts one hand, and you see the fingers twitch in the air. The first touch is hardly tangible, but you jump up and whimper. The second one is bolder, the pulp of index finger slides through your curls in a circular movement, and you cannot tear your eyes off his face.

The brows are hiked up, lips slightly open, he looks enthralled and curious, and you have never seen him like that. Warmth and affection flood you, and you spread your legs wider. He smiles, and the finger slides along the labia, on the sensitive hollow between the mound and the thigh. He repeats on the other side, and you grab handfuls of the covers to stop yourself from shifting your hips to make his finger slide on your folds.

You do not need to though, he strokes the middle, brushing over the clit, and you moan. The finger slides over your opening, and he hums. You peek. He is studying the tip of his digit. It is wet. Oh, Maiar, you do not understand anymore where embarrassment stops and arousal starts… He decisively presses the finger to your folds and swirls it. You arch your back and raspily moan. He repeats the action again, coating his finger and your folds in your moisture, and you push your hips down. You did not intend on it, but the tip of his finger presses into your entrance, and your climax erupts in your lower stomach.

You are mewling, your back arched, and hands clawing on the sheets. You do not remember where you are, what is transpiring, all you perceive is the white hot surge of pleasure rushing through your body. You fall back in the sheets, breathing heavily and suddenly remember what brought this on you.

You lift your head and will yourself to look at him. His eyes are wide open, his hand still frozen midair, his index finger still raised as if he is going to shake it or point at something. "Was that?.." His voice is raspy. "Yes," you answer in small voice. You feel like hiding under the covers in embarrassment. "I would assume it would require more effort..." He is staring at his finger in amazement. "I usually does… I am just… And it is you…" You press your palms to your face.

"That is good then? That it is so fast?" He sounds sincerely interested, and you cannot contain a giggle. You are never uncovering your face again. You will never be able to look into his eyes.

The finger slides over your vulva again, and you squeal and drop your hands. And then he switches, and now it is his thumb rubbing over your drenched folds. He is still gentle, but he is obviously determined to achieve the same result again. You are moaning and grab handfuls of the sheets. "The clit…" His movement stops. "What?" "Please, do not stop, oh please…" He returns to his ministrations, and then you feel his lips on your hipbone. Your hips buck up, and you climax again.

He is sucking on the skin, and it is too much. You scamper from him on the bed, pushing with your hands and feet, and he gives you a surprised look. "Not right away, please… It is too..." Your back is pressed into the wall, and you are panting. You drop your head back, close your eyes and push your hair off your face. You need a moment to recover.

You open your eyes and see the King Under the Mountain studying you with keen interest, head slightly tilted, large hands stilled on the covers. "It is very different…" "What is, my lord?" "Your release… From ours..." You are certain that is not the time for a lecture of reproduction. "It is only meant for pleasure, is it not? Not for child conception?" So he is aware. "It is also important for a woman's health," you feel you need to defend the architecture of female sexuality. He smirks, "I have to also note that it is a rather enticing spectacle."

You are feeling very playful all of a sudden. "Men have peculiar faces in their rapture too, my lord." You are smiling, but his face suddenly falls. Oh no, you have offended him and made him uncomfortable. Will he be concerned with his face now? "And how many have you viewed, my lady?" Oh… You forgot the possessiveness of Dwarves. "Hardly any, my lord, but women talk," he is still looking at you suspiciously, "I am friends with many winegirls." That convinces him. "They are a jolly kind," there is no judgement in his tone.

That makes you think though. "My lord," you pull your knees to yourself and tuck your feet on one side, "I am certain there were women available..." You wring your hands, and he lifts a brow. He is lying on his stomach, and you two seem to be strangely comfortable at the moment. "Why then?.. " "Women of other races do not interest Dwarves, honourable healer, they do not seem very attractive to us. Thin, pale, no facial hair..." His tone is grave, and you are stupefied. What in the name of…? And then you notice the gleam in his eyes. You gasp, he is shamelessly teasing you!

And immediately you feel very gamesome yourself. You drop your head down and sigh sadly and loudly. "I am so sorry, my lord, that this…" You move your leg, and your foot is right in front of his long nose, "is so small and pale. And this…" You stroke your hip, and he sucks in air, "is so narrow and smooth." Your tone is mournful, "To say nothing of these..." Your palms lie on your breasts, and he pounces at you.

He grabs you around your middle and rolls you underneath him. His hand is roaming your body, he squeezes your breast, strokes your waist, and then grabs your hip. You laugh throatily, feeling alive and brave, and he is growling. "I quite enjoy all this, honourable healer..." He bites your shoulder playfully, and you press yourself up into him. "I am glad, my lord."

His palm slides underneath you and squeezes your buttock. "And I will need more investigating, but I seem to very much enjoy this," you smile into his darkening eyes. "I am glad," you repeat again, your tone soft, and you tenderly stroke his face with your palms. He kisses you, and you open up your legs, and then wrap them around his waist. The invitation is clear, and you smile into his widening eyes. His lips twitch, and you nod.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This one was fun to write :) since the little moment of their discussion regarding *****ahem* ****the size was already described in "The Hunt" I had to rework it and continue from a set point. I might have been VERY generous when I was writing "The Hunt", it was my first smut and I was giddy, but alas, nothing can be done now :P The size has to remain unchanged :D**

**Yum, love these writing moments! And yum regarding Thorin's everything! So inspiring :P **

Doubt and hesitation cloud his face. You are stroking his beard, smiling tenderly to him, and he presses his lips together. "What is it, my lord?" You move your hand and stroke his nape. "Do I comprehend it right that it will not last long?" He sounds peevish again, but you know now that it is his well-hidden insecurity turning him in such a grouch. You feel elated, he is sharing his doubts with you. It is miniscule, but it is an obvious sign of trust.

"If it is my pleasure you are concerned with, my lord, I assure you I will receive enough." He is viewing you doubtfully. You kiss the corner of his mouth and whisper, "Size matters." He looks down between your bodies, his member pressed between you two. Then he sighs and shifts his hips. He lifts his pelvis, and you rise slightly to align your bodies. He closes his eyes and pushes. The broad tip presses into your folds, and you press down. His wide head slips into you, and you yelp. He is too big, and it has been so long, that you feel suddenly panicked and suffocating under him.

You thrash and try to move away. His eyes fly open, and he looks at you in concern. "I am sorry, I am sorry, I cannot, I just…" You try scampering away from him, and he rolls off you and his palm lies on your shoulder. "Wren..." You are taking spasmodic breaths in and hide your face in your hands. "It is not my first time, but I am so… It is just... And you are too large…" He is stroking your shoulder, and then his arm snakes around your middle, and he pulls you into him.

You should be terrified of him, large, foreign and hot, but you suddenly crave his closeness and wrap your arms around his neck, busking in his warmth, and his smell, and his tenderness. The panic disappears as quickly as it came, and you feel ashamed. He is leaning on one elbow, embracing you with another arm, you are pressed into him, and you kiss his neck. "Forgive me, that was rather silly… I do not know what came over me..." You move away and look into his eyes. They are tender, and he places a gentle kiss on your jaw.

"Should not I be the one terrified?" You chuckle shakily. "You are not the one who will probably have trouble sitting tomorrow..." He smirks and then looks down your bodies. "I have not given it a lot of thought previously, but you are right, there is hardly enough room in your small body for it. It will fit rather snugly." Your brows hike up, and you blurt out in a very undignified squeak, "It will never fit at all!" He guffaws and falls back in the pillows, his eyes wrinkled in unclouded merriment. You laugh as well. His warm hands grab your middle, and he pulls you to his chest. "Not a very gracious compliment, but I appreciate the sentiment." You look in his laughing eyes. You are happy your outburst has not dampened the mood. If anything, talking about his member seems to enliven him. Men are so predictable. And vain, no matter what race.

"What is it with men and size? Bigger is not always better, whatever they say. There is a reasonable extent, after which it is just impossible to..." You vaguely wave your hands in the air, your gestures suggestive of some other movements. He follows your flailing hands with his eyes and smirks. "And it is twice as thick and one and a half times longer than that of an average Man. No need to look so self-satisfied, my lord! It is just the biology of races, and I am equipped only accordingly..." You are staring into his merry eyes, wrinkles runing in the corners, thick lush lashes, and then you arrive at a decision.

You gather your courage and straddle him. He is looking at you tenderly, and you ask suggestively, "So, what are we to do about it, my lord?" At that moment in his eyes you see the soft light that assures you that you chose a man wisely. The blue stormy irises are full of earnest affection and undimmed glee, trustful and exuberant, and he smiles to you. He cocks one brow and pulling your face to his lips. In the velvety, low voice that makes your heart race and your hands tremble he murmurs, "We tread carefully and slowly." You kiss him passionately and allow him to put you carefully back onto the sheets.

You open up your legs, and he presses his tip into you. His lips are on yours, moving and caressing, you are stroking his back, one hand slides into the hair at the back of his head, fingers tangle into his waves, and he slowly pushes into you. Your walls are stretching, on the edge of pain but never crossing it, his length hot and smooth inside you, and you squeeze him tighter with your legs. You are taking deep open-mouthed breaths, an exquisite overpowering ecstasy flooding all your senses. He stills in you, and you see that his eyes are shut, and his jaws are clenched, and piercing tenderness and love burst inside your heart and mind. "Thorin..."

His eyes fly open, and he shatters. You feel the hot surge of his seed hitting your inner walls, he drops his head, his forehead presses into your neck, and he is throatily moaning. Shudders run through his body, and he is shaking his head. The moment is so perfect that you feel tears pooling in your eyes. You love him so much at that moment that you have to bite into your lip not to say it outloud.

You love him, love Thorin Oakenshield with all your heart. It forever belongs to the Dwarven King, and it flutters in an endless yearning for him. You halt yourself before you start questioning and doubting yourself and the sanity of your actions tonight and will yourself to return to reality. And it is beyond anything you ever hoped for. You are pressed into sheets with the scorching broad body of the King Under the Mountain, who seems to be quickly recovering from his first release with a woman. A moment indeed worth savouring!

He lifts his face and looks at you. His blue eyes focus on yours, and then he frowns. "If you dare tarnish this moment with your criticism, I will leave right away," your tone is stern, and one of his black brows cocks up, "my lord." To be honest, the respectful moniker did little to soften your commanding tone. He ponders you, and more blush rises on your cheeks. Then he shrugs in a funny gesture very unbecoming a proud Dwarven King and presses his lips to yours. You moan into his mouth. He is intoxicating.

He is thorough as well, his tongue caressing your lips, teasing them to open, and you gladly comply. The tongues meet, and your walls clench. He tears his mouth away from yours and drops his head on your shoulder again. You momentarily wonder if you are cruel enough and then mentally agree that, yes, you are. You squeeze him again, and he groans.

And then it is your turn to groan. He is swelling inside you again with an astonishing speed. He also starts slowly rocking his hips into you, shamelessly rubbing to your walls, spurring his arousal, and soon enough you are pinned to the bed with a fully erect Dwarven phallus. You gasp for air, and he is sucking on your neck.

You were so overwhelmed with emotions before that you did not have time to appreciate the fullness and the stretching of your quim. It is rather hard to ignore now. He experimentally rolls his hips harder, and you moan appreciatively. He slightly pulls out and thrusts in a sharp movement. You cry out and dig your nails into his shoulders. He repeats the action. He is so obviously experimenting that you once again praise yourself for the decision to bring him into your room. There is some sort of innocent curiosity in him, and you feel giddy and enamoured. You grab the back of his head and pull him down. You run your tongue along his helix, and the rhythm of his hips that he seems to have just established stutters. You bite into the lobe, and he yelps.

He twists his head out of your grip and lifts his torso on his straight arms. You should be worried, but you are not. You wrap your legs around his waist tighter and smile to him encouragingly. He presses his palms into the sheets, shifting them to find a more stable position, and then thrusts into your in a deep forceful move. You arch your back and breathe out his name. There is feral smirk on his lips, and he starts moving. The rhythm is powerful and vigorous, and you are unraveling under him, your hands fly to your breasts, your squeeze them, and he is growling loudly, his eyes glued to your fingers. He is snarling, his teeth bared, and you scream out in your third release.

He probably tries to slow down, his tip is hitting your cervix, and you could use a bit of time to recover, but your walls clenching around him seem to be too much of an incitement. He picks up the speed again, you are thrashing underneath him, your rapture mixing with the new waves of pleasure. His hips move faster and faster, his movements become jerky, and with a loud throaty bellow he falls on you, his body convulsing in climax. You both are breathing heavily, he is suffocating you, and you see purple sparks dancing in front of your eyes. You press your hand to your forehead.

After a few moments of silence, he tries to get up, and all he achieves is rising on his elbows. He presses his head to your shoulder, and you hear his raspy low voice, "Is this how it is to transpire?" You chuckle, "I do not have much experience, but I suppose in the best of cases, yes." He chuckles and then suddenly licks your collar bone. You clench around him, and he mutters something in Khuzdul. You assume it is a swearing, the word is not familiar.

He rolls off you, and you can finally take a proper breath in. You both are staring at the ceiling. You turn your head and look at him. The hair is splayed on your pillow, cheeks flushed, face relaxed and sated, he is smiling slightly and then turns to face you as well. You feel a sudden urge to curl into him and purr, but you are not certain how to proceed.

He rolls on his side, and his eyes are roaming your face. You stretch your hand and stroke his beard. His remarkable eyes close, and he rubs his cheek to your palm. And then he grabs you around your waist and pulls you into him. He lies on his back and arranges your into his side. You wrap one leg around him, and your palm lies on his chest. You tread your fingers into the thick chest hair and sigh happily.

The often heard description of post-coital bliss that your friends were advocating so many times seems to make sense now. You are drawing meaningless swirls on his skin with your fingers, and he takes a deep breath in.

"Are you aching, haban?" You miss the meaning of his question, the moniker in Khuzdul making you gasp. _My gem…_ You gulp. "Pardon me?" "Are you aching? I was not gentle..." There is a sincere concern in his voice, and you rise on your elbow to look into his face. He looks at you, the expression in his eyes soft and cordial. "No, I feel wonderful," you press a kiss to his shoudler.

The fresh earthy smell of his skin is stronger now, and your mind plummets into your gutter. You wonder what his skin tastes like, and you are not thinking of the parts you have already sampled. You wonder how many rounds there are in him, and since you have very little hope to ever see him between your sheets again, you think you have nothing to lose. You put your head back on his shoulder, and after a moment of gathering your courage you slide your palm down his body, following the delicious trail of thick hair below his navel.

He loudly inhales, and you are feeling too shy to look into his face. Which is rather unreasonable, since you do not seem to feel too shy to curl your fingers into the black coarse hair and then pointedly rub the base of his phallus between your index and middle finger.


	6. Chapter 6

He is taking slow measured breaths, and you are hiding your face into his shoulder. If nothing comes out of it, you can pretend you did not mean anything by your ministrations. You doubt he would ask, but you can pretend you were just exploring, the hair is thick and coarse, the skin is burning the tips of your fingers, and the base of his phallus that the pulps of your fingers occasionally brush is surprisingly smooth and silky… Any excuses become unnecessary, his member swells back to life with an astonishing speed, and he puffs air. You swiftly move down his body and lie down between his legs.

You still do not dare looking at his face. You encircle the base of his member with your hand, and then you make a mistake of lifting your eyes. He is staring at you with burning blue eyes, irises almost hidden by immense black pupils. His brows are hiked up, and the face is coloured with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. You grow still. Perhaps, it is not something Dwarves partake. You swallow in mortification.

You are surprised yourself that you are craving it so much. You have attempted it a few times many years ago with your former lover. He was not interested, you found it repulsive. You are burning inside now and lick your lips. You are staring into the King's eyes and frantically search for words. You need to ask somehow, but you are tongue-tied.

"It is not necessary..." His voice is choked, and he loudly clears his throat. "As I understand, it is a favour, and an unpleasant one..." His cheeks above the black beard start burning, and you suddenly smile boldly. "They say, my lord, that it is exceptionally enjoyable for a man." He snorts, "I would assume so, honourable healer, the mere thought is…" He is looking for an adequate word, "Appealing." You run your thumb up and down his length and lower your eyes on the organ in your hand. It is beautiful, though for the life of you, you could never expect applying such definition to a phallus. Large, shapely, skin even and smooth, it looks almost proud. A ridiculous thought that the member has a good posture flashes in your mind. It also has a slight curve towards the King's left shoulder. "I do not think I will find it unpleasant," your voice is very quiet, "Not with you, my lord. I have no experience... but I desire it." And then you realize that it looks as if you are talking to the organ and not the man, and your eyes fly to his.

"You do?" He looks almost comically surprised. You decisively nod. "Allow me to try... please?" Your voice is small, and he drops his head in the pillows. You decide to take it as affirmation and lower your mouth on him. You close your lips around his broad head and swirl your tongue tentatively. Your senses are assaulted by the mixed flavours of both your releases, and you close your eyes. A shudder of pleasure runs through your body, and you cannot suppress a moan. Your tastes blended on him make your walls clench, and you suck harder. A low raspy sob escapes the King's lips.

The mechanics seem rather simple, considering you are well familiar with the anatomy of the phallus and the sensitivity of different parts. You slightly lift on one arm, hand pressed into the sheets, and remember the discussion you once overheard between inebriated winegirls. Thea's giddy voice is ringing in your head, "Rhythm and pressure, my darlings! That is what important!"

You settle into the rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, hollowing your cheeks, and you do not notice your own loud moans. Your moisture is coating your inner thighs, the sensation of the hot girth between your lips driving you into sensual frenzy. You experimentally tilt your head and dip your head lower. The head bumps into your throat, and it instinctively constricts. The King cries out, jumbled words in Khuzdul mixed with unintelligible growling.

Your head is spinning, you are close to your own climax, and you slightly slide off his length, your lips on the ridge of his glans. You want to savour the feeling, and you swirl the tip of your tongue around the groove. He snarls and bucks his hips up. His tip hits the back of your throat, and his hot salty seed spills into you. You swallow involuntarily, and the grip of your esophagus milks him more. He is sobbing, and his hands are thrashing on the sheets.

"Mahal, sanamrad… lagabur… mal... malel..." He is grasping his own hair and then rubs his face with his large palms, his hands obviously shaking, the muscles of his abdomen trembling before your eyes. You lie your head on his thigh, and your hair falls on his oversensitive member. He jumps up and throatily groans. You push your curls behind your back, and he exhales. You close your eyes and listen to the waves of pleasure dancing in your body. Well, _lagabur_, that is obvious, that would be "with tongue," _mal_ and _malel_ are two words for pleasure, _malel_ being a stronger form, but _sanamrad_... Perfect death? Pure death? That one is unclear, but you are too sated to question it.

"Haban?" The King has seemingly recovered from his rapture, and you lift your face. His eyes are wide open, and he stretches his hands to you. You move up, and he picks you up under your arms and pulls you to his lips. You momentarily question the good sense of his intention, but he does not seem to care. He is greedily kissing you, and you forget about anything but his soft lips and hot palms roaming your body. One of them lies on your buttock, and his mouth is suddenly still. And then he suddenly pushes you on the bed, your stomach on the sheets, and presses his lips to your shoulder blades.

He is peppering your back with kisses, stretched on his side along your body, and then his hand grabs your buttock. He is not very gentle, and you lift your pelvis, pressing your flesh into his hand. He strokes one side in a forceful circular movement, and then gives the second one the same attention. "Magnificent…" He is murmuring into your skin, his hot rapacious mouth sliding down, and soon he bites into the round flesh. You yelp and start rubbing your clit to the sheets. They are wet under you, and you feel the King's finger slide between your buttocks and into you.

"Oh yes, please… Please..." You are mewling, all propriety forgotten, and he bites into your buttock again, and in a strike of genius he starts moving the finger in and out of you, obviously imitating the movement of his member from a few minutes before. You climax with a scream, chanting his name and perhaps "so sweet" and "so good." You do not care.

One thing becomes clear, the King has to be educated on when to stop. You squeal and jump away from his still moving fingers. "Too much, I need… A moment, my lord, just a bit..." You roll away from him on the bed, and then with a squeak you tumble on the floor in an ungraceful mass of limbs. Again, you do not care. You splay on the floor and stare at the ceiling.

"Haban?" The King is looking down at you from the bed, an amused and slightly smug smile on his lips, "Is the floor not cold?" You shake your head. You are still recovering from your fourth climax in the course of one night. You need rest. He is chuckling. "Come back to bed, haban. I promise to leave you in peace. I learnt the necessity of a pause."

You feign suspicious look, and he guffaws. "Dwarf's honour," he presses a palm to his chest and then stretches it to you. You grab it, and he pulls you back into his arms. You two settle on the pillows, and he pulls the covers over both your bodies. The sheets smell of your lovemaking, and you press into him. Lips find each other in a simple already familiar move, and you stroke his face, and then the ear. He sighs into your mouth, and his hand strokes your back between shoulder blades.

Your caresses slow down, and you feel your eyes closing. A panicked thought flashes through your mind, you do not want to fall asleep, you cannot let this night end, not just yet, but the slumber overwhelms you. You are always quick to slip into drowsiness after a release. You are grasping to the remnants of your consciousness, your fingers curling into his hair, but then it is dark.

Your eyes fly open, and you are gasping for air. It is still dark around, and you breathe out in relief. It is not yet dawn, but then you realize what awoke you. The King slid down the sheets under the covers and is kissing your stomach. The beard is scratching the skin there, you will have stubble burns tomorrow, and that is the most exquisite of sensations. You roll on your back, allowing him more access, and he hums into your skin.

"How long have I been asleep?" "But a half an hour," his tongue dips into your navel. His hands are eager and greedy, hot palms slide under your buttocks and squeeze, and you are amazed at the Dwarven stamina and vigour. He is quite obviously aiming for another bout.

You wonder if you should signal your willingness in some way, and then his thick index finger slides between your folds, and you rightfully assume that the wetness coating them will be a quite clear indication. You jerk off the covers, you are too hot. "Ingenious mechanism..." He is murmuring into your skin on the hipbone, slowly moving his digit in and out of you. Your thoughts jumble. "Um?.." "The moisture, so accommodating… Should work..." "What should..?" You are panting, the stable intoxicating rhythm of his movement making hot pleasure swirl in your lower stomach. "This," two fingers enter you, and you arch with a loud raspy moan. You want to say that after his cock pretty much anything will fit, but you are too busy clenching your muscles to talk.

And then suddenly he stops. The fingers are buried in you down to his knuckles but he is not moving. You are too far gone to investigate, you are whining and try moving your hips to elevate the delicious pressure built below your navel, but when you push your hips down he slightly moves his hand away, still keeping two phalanges inside. You finally understand that it is his doing, the world partially returns into your field of vision, and you lift your head.

He is playing with you! The King Under the Mountain is spread on his stomach between your legs, his hand buried between your folds, and the most mischievous of smiles is dancing in the corner of his lustful lips! He is depriving you of release, and he is enjoying it.

"Would you like me to continue, my lady?" A black glossy brow is cocked, and he looks so conceited and self-assured that you cannot help but quip. Your tongue has always been your worst enemy! "In actuality, not so much." His face falls, and you feel like you just kicked a pup. The impish light in his eyes is gone, and you see the shoulders tense. There is only one way to salvage the situation. And it is honesty, openness and more fornication.

"I would like to try something else…" Your cheeks are burning, but his eyes are attentive and hopeful again, and you rush in. "I would like you to..." The blush is almost painful, "I would like you to take me… from behind..." His eyes widen.

And then he gently pulls his fingers out, gets up and is kneeling on the bed giving you room to move. You roll on your stomach and breathe out. Goosebumps cover your skin, and then a scorching palm lies on your back. He strokes it up and down, and then his lips press to your shoulder blades. You feel slow sensual movements of his mouth, tongue joining in, and you spread your legs.

One of his hands grasps your hip, and his erection presses to your buttocks. Another arm is straight, supporting his weight, and you shift your pelvis. The tip hits the folds, and you moan. You push back, and he slips into you. You hear a loud groan from The King. "Mahal, that is even deeper..." His palm is still on your hip, and the fingers clench, there will be bruises. You rock your pelvis, spurring him.

No encouragement is required, he quickly finds his footing, his thrusts deep and forceful, and you are softly crying out. His hot length is rubbing all the right spots in you, his cock seemingly even bigger than before, and you are switching to whimpering. And then you push up from the bed and stand on all four. He emits a positively animalistic growl and grabs your hips with both hands.

He gains momentum and picks up speed, his tip hitting your cervix almost painfully, but he seems to be determined to impale you even more. He is also mumbling something, and the only word you catch is "zuhkul," which in your feverish mind has something to do with bottling ale, but then you remember that it means an act of sealing something not to let air in or out. The King is quite poetically stating that you are tight.

His last few thrusts are so deep that you think you are going to lose consciousness, he is snarling loudly, and then he climaxes, now surely bruising your skin. Probably leaving ten purple fingerprints on your backside. He collapses ahead, his chest falls on your back. You cannot support his weight on your arms, they give away, and you both crumple on the bed.

He scoops you into his arms, presses your back into his chest, and he is nuzzling you behind your ear. "Haban… Sanyasith… Ghivashel…." You bite into your bottom lip painfully and prohibit yourself to even think about the fact that he just called you "a perfect wife". Men say all sorts of things after their release. He is kissing your hair, and his strong arms are tight around your shoulders. He is sighing and kissing, and you feel like you melt into his warmth.


	7. Chapter 7

You are locked in a circle of his large arms, and you run your fingers up and down his forearm. "I need to leave, haban..." His voice is soft, his lips brush your ear, and it feels as if he just buried his Elven blade into your stomach down to its hilt. You clench your teeth and will yourself to take five deep breaths. Just five breaths in, you tell yourself, you can do it. You accomplish four before the first strange choked sound escapes your lips. He does not notice and nuzzles your neck.

"Where are the bath chambers in this inn?" He sounds rather awkward, and you feel you will start weeping right away if you do not find some way to govern your storming emotions. He is not leaving, he just needs to… That makes you remember about your own needs. And they are urgent. You notice that the pressure in your bladder certainly helps to stop you from agonizing over emotional devastation from his potential leaving. You extricate yourself out of his embrace and turn to him. "At the end of the corridor, to the right from my door. And I should as well…" You make vague gestures in the air, and he nods.

You both climb out of the bed and start picking up your clothes from the floor. You chuckle. He is standing in the middle of your room, in all his naked glory, his trousers in his hand, and questioningly cocks a brow. "I cannot find anything…" You giggle, and he smiles to you. You grab your dressing gown from a chair and wrap in it. You will unlikely encounter anyone in the halls, it is very late. He pulls on the trousers and his light shirt, and you unlock the door.

There is a strange pause, and you giggle again. You two are standing in the corridor in front of your open door, and you wonder if you should kiss goodbye. He finds a wonderful solution to the tense ambiguity. He gives your buttock a squeeze with his hot palm through the thin fabric and bestowing you with a lopsided smirk leaves to his end of the hall. You give yourself a moment to appreciate the view and then dart to the opposite bath chambers.

You attend to your needs, quickly rinse your body in cold water from a pail, noting the soreness inside and already appearing purple finger prints on your backside, you have to spin on the spot several times like a pup chasing its tail to have a good look, and then you pull on the gown again, and rush back.

The King is sitting on the bed already, his hands on his knees, like an obedient pupil on a school bench. There is an anticipation on his face, and you understand he is not planning to go to sleep now. You step closer to him, and he presses his face into you, his nose brushing your breasts. The palms lie on your buttocks, and you push your fingers into his mane. His fingers twitch, and it is quite clear he does not know how to ask. You scrape your nails on the back of his head and then gently pull his hair. He drops his head back, and you are looking in his beautiful face. The cerulean eyes are shining, and you have learnt to recognize the soft, sensual line of slightly open lips as a sign of his lust rising again. You give him a feathery kiss on the corner of his mouth, and he smiles wider to you.

The deft Dwarven fingers slip on the knot of your belt, you are stroking his ears. The gown opens, and he pushes his hands inside and around your waist. The lips press to your sternum, and he twirls his tongue on your skin. You arch into him, and he pulls you closer, tilts his head and sucks one of your teats in. He switches sides, humming low from obvious pleasure. But there is still this lingering desire in you, you have not had enough of one of your ploys...

You carefully move away from him, the breasts, wet from his mouth, are cooling in the air, and you slowly kneel in front of him. His eyes darken, and you place your palms on his knees. And then you gently push them wider. He is taking slow deep breaths and complies. You quickly untangle the strings on the fly and slide your hand in. He is fully erect already.

You bend down and take him in your mouth. He hisses and tries to move away. You lift your eyes at him, not moving your lips. His hand tangles into your hair, "Gentle, haban, it is too much…" You realizes he must be oversensitive after all that transpired between you two, and you hum apologetically. It achieves the opposite result from the one you wanted, the vibration going into his member, and he painfully grasps a handful of your hair. It takes a lot of your willpower not to give him a forceful suck, somehow his action making your walls clench, and you feel moisture dripping from your folds.

You carefully encircle the base of his phallus with your hand and proceed with soft licks and gentle swirls of your tongue on his flesh. A low groan falls off his lips, and he leans back supporting himself on straight arms behind his back. Your other palm slips under his shirt onto the scorching skin, you rake your nails on his hard stomach, through the coarse hair, his eyes close, and he is moaning. You slide up and down his length, switching between swirling your tongue around the glans and pushing your lips all the way down bumping your nose into his dark curls. He is breathing laboriously, and then he lifts his head and stares at you.

Your lust flares up, and you pull him out. Keeping your eyes locked with his, you touch the head with the very tip of your tongue, and then slowly press your tongue to it, making sure he sees every movement. Your tongue swirls around the head, and you both moan. You close your lips and lower yourself on him, taking him as deep as you can. You will your throat to relax and breathe through the reflexive constricting of it.

He suddenly moves and presses his hand into your shoulder. "Enough, haban… It is not… It has been too much, I cannot…" You press your hands into his abdomen and shove him forcefully onto the bed. He falls back with a groan. You move closer to the bed, your knees already aching on the hard wooden floor, but you hardly notice it. You pull his breeches lower, gaining access to his scrotum. You have no skill and very little knowledge, but necessity is the mother of invention.

You slide your hand under his testes and press your palm into them. You are familiar with the medical side of this body part, the low lustful growl that such action elicits out of the King Under the Mountain is a pleasant surprise. You know how sensitive they are, so you gently cup the sacks and slightly move your fingers, continuing to bob your head up and down.

Once again you notice your own pleasure building up in your lower stomach from your actions, and you moan loudly. And then you put your hand right at the bottom of his testes, the tips of your fingers brush his perineum, and you slowly run your palm and fingers from the bottom of his scrotum all the way up to his member in one motion. He growls and clenches his fists on the sheets.

You repeat the action several times, and his breathing changes, short sobs bursting out of him, and you understand that he is approaching his release. You have learnt the sighs the last time, and you double your efforts. You suck all the air out of your mouth, the movements of your head more forceful, your fingers playing with his sacks, and he roars and releases into your mouth.

The seed hits your throat, and your own climax erupts in you. You release his member and sag on the floor near the bed. You drop your head on your arms and moan weakly. Your body is shuddering, small sobs escaping you, and you press your forehead to the cold floor. Hot waves of pleasure run through you, every muscle of your body aching and singing.

A pair of warm hands picks you up. The King pulls you on the bed, into the sheets, your heads lie on the pillows, you intertwine your bodies, your lips find his, his heavy leg encircles yours, and he seems to press every inch of your body into him. You both are still shaking, and you rub your temple to his cheek. Hot lips press to it, and he sighs.

You remember nothing after that, sleep overwhelms you without you noticing it, and your body is so overtired that no dreams come. You open your eyes, in the first bleak light of dawn seeping through the curtains on the window. Your first night with Thorin Oakenshield has passed. This is your last dawn with him.

You turn your head and look at the Dwarf sleeping near you. He arms are wrapped around your middle, your side aching from sleeping on his massive forearm. The lush lashes are lying under his eyes, the line of lips soft, he looks younger and content, because there is no omnipresent wrinkle between his brows, and he is so beautiful that white cold pain pierces your chest. You stroke the silver on his temple with the tips of your fingers and notice that your hands are shaking. You are not ready to let him go yet.

You press your lips to his. It is not yet morning, the sun is not yet high. He stirs in his sleep, and you push him on his back. The blue eye fly open, and he is staring at you in confusion. You straddle him, peppering kisses on his face, slide lower, clawing on his chest, mad and sobbing. He is trying to catch your hands, pull you up, he is trying to see your eyes, and you are pushing the covers off the both of you.

"Please, please, one more time… Just one more..." You are pleading, biting and kissing, your hands roaming his torso, and he picks you up under your arms and pulls you to his lips. You clench handfuls of his hair in your fingers and bite into his bottom lip.

Your frenzy spills onto him, his hands are grabbing your shoulders painfully. You sit up and squeeze him between your thighs. His member is growing under your sex, and you rub your folds to it. He palms your breasts, and you drop your head back. "Just once more, please..." You are moving your hips, and his hands painfully grab your buttocks. He throws you off him onto the bed face down, and his teeth sink into the flesh of your backside. You wail and wrench out of his hands. In your attempt to escape his grip you twist your body, and your feet end up near his face. You slide on his heated body and swiftly guide his member into you mouth.

"No, not that..." He is growling, but you are relentless. And suddenly you release him and scream from genuine pain. He bit your calf that was dangling in front of his nose. He pushes you on the bed and pounces at you. His hot body is weighing you down, and you are lifting your pelvis, pressing your buttocks into him. You are mumbling, spreading yourself, and his arm slides under your stomach. He pushes into you, and you wail. He thrusts with a feral snarl, lifting your hips, and you are weeping, words of gratitude spilling from your lips.

He is pounding into you, you are stretching your upper body on the sheets, clawing at them, and he straightens up, his both palms once again on your hips, fingers clenched, hurting you, and he pushes both of you over the edge, into the roaring fire of pleasure, and rapture, and something that feels like death. His words make sense now. Malel sanamrad… The perfect death in pleasure...


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This is the last chapter, my lovelies. After that, just an epilogue. **

**Remember, if you haven't read it but want to know what happens next, "Thorin's Morning After" describes the events that follow. Also, after "Morning After" you can have a look at "Thorin's Word a Day" #38, it will give you a glimpse into the King's POV on the events. **

The King Under the Mountain is sleeping on your chest, his dark waves scattered on your breasts and shoulder, his heavy arm across your body. You run your fingers through his strands, and silent hot tears are running down your face. You feel them trickle down your temples, into your hair, a hot drop rolls into your ear, and you carefully lift your arm to wipe them off but not to disturb his sleep. And then you put it on his hand and stroke his knuckles with the tips of your fingers.

You are watching the light of morning crawl on the window sill, among the little pots of herbs on it, touch the clothes scattered on the floor, and play on the plates of his brigandine. He picked it up on his way to the bath chambers and distractedly threw it on a chair.

You push your head back into the pillow, slightly lift your face to the ceiling, willing the tears to stop, but the despair and the pain are too acute. You are fighting with yourself, you lie to yourself that you just have to fall asleep, and it will bring relief. You tell yourself that you will think about everything later, ponder and evaluate, find your footing, find clarity, remember who you are.

You run the pulp of your index finger down his hand, gently touch the short nails, stroke the thumb. Your chest is hollow, pain is torturing your temples, you are aching all over. The night is over.

And then you realize that you have to leave Dale. One day this hand will bear a ring with runes of his wife's name, and you need to be somewhere far away when it happens. Perhaps, you can go to Bree. You have heard a lot about it, Gondor or Rohan would be too close to Erebor. You can travel over the Misty Mountains, place as much distance between you two as possible.

And then you berate yourself. You are wasting the precious minutes of having him in your arms inflicting the pointless torture on yourself. Of course one day his hand will bear a ring, or whatever the symbol of betrothal is for Dwarves. You have read somewhere it was a necklace for a woman, and you swallow with difficulty refusing to allow yourself to imagine him clasping a heavy necklace around another woman's neck. And then you have to bite into your lip painfully, your treacherous mind offers you a strange image of a field with merry Summer flowers bobbing their heads, a picnic basket and a Dwarven cloak spread on the grass. His hands lie on a neck, the clasp of a necklace clicks, and his lips are pressed to the nape. Who in their sane mind proposes marriage at a picnic? You must have lost your senses completely.

You remind yourself that you knew it was to be one night. It was, if anything were to happen at all, your only chance to know him, to touch, to taste, to make him yours and give yourself to him. And you did. The tears dry out, and you take a deep breath in. You have gotten everything you ever wanted. And more that you could ever hope for. He was yours, and you were his.

You close your eyes and will your body to notice and remember every little detail of this night. His passion, his tenderness, his heat, his hands, his lips on your skin, his fervour and his laugh. The white teeth gleaming in the dimness of your bedroom, the feral grin on his lips, the low moans and the feverish murmuring. You forbid yourself to even think of the names he gave you and the almost promises he made. You will only remember how he compared your skin to a dove's wing and the praise to your backside. No "yasith," no "ghivashel," no "haban"... Another woman is to be his gem, his treasure, his wife. You had your night and have no right to hope for anything else. The man sleeping on your chest at the moment is not ever to be yours.

And then the despair is gone as quickly as it flooded and wrecked your heart, and you have to press your lips together to contain a giggle. What do women normally do in such position? You are glad that at least you are not hungry and do not need to visit the bath chambers again. When a lover is sleeping on you and uncomfortably constricts your breathing, is one supposed to swoon and sigh, pondering his magnificence? Are you supposed to be writing a poem in your head glorifying his phallus? Should you consider how he changed your life and compare him to the magical image of your eternal love that every girl has since she is five? Since you really never had a dream of a dashing man sweeping you off your feet, you cannot tell. You have always expected that if you were ever to end up with a man, it would be a rather boring, practical arrangement, a small household, children and a modest practice of a midwife. How are you going to fit a ravishing, lustful Dwarf into your fantasy now?

You are aware of your wild unattractiveness, but it is not as if you are deformed. You have both arms, and your legs are rather decent, it cannot be seen under skirts, but they are almost shapely. You have seem such women walking at the market square with their husbands and children, that you thought that certainly there was some reasonable man for you, since even those women managed to find a match. Yes, men love with their eyes and are endlessly dim in their views on matrimony, but surely if one is looking for a loyal and reliable wife, you are not the worst of choices. You are decent in the kitchen, and with a small smug smile you think that apparently you have some merits in bed.

And then you remember that you are indeed in bed, and not alone. And your eyes widen, and your breathing hitches. You managed to forget that you are in bed with Thorin Oakenshield! You jerkily turn your head and stare at him.

Suddenly your head swims, and you take a laboured breath in. There will be no small house, no convenient dull marriage, no children. You are ruined, and you did it to yourself, willingly and exuberantly. You realize that you have always had this certainty in your heart of future bringing you a chance of having a family, if not a mate but at least a child. And now it seems impossible. You will never be able to look at another man now, to betray what you are feeling now, to be with another. You will never allow another man touch you, not even for the purpose of having a babe. And you shortly wonder if one can have two loves in their life, and then you are certain that no, not you, not after him.

The tears rise again, and you clench your jaw. They run down your cheeks again, soft and desperate this time, no hotness and wildness of your previous crying. Your body is tired, the muscles tremble, the skin is tingly. How will you look at yourself tomorrow, the marks left by his passion unmistakable reminder of what transpired between you two? How will you live now that you have given all of you to him?

You shortly wonder if you should have restrained yourself, have left something for yourself, have saved at least a piece of your heart and soul? And then you throw the thought aside. This is better, to give in and give your whole self to him, to burn to ashes.

You know you will rise again, from the heartbreak and devastation that tomorrow will bring, you will rise and continue living. And then you remember that it is not tomorrow but today. The daylight is flooding your room, the day is here, and you sob. He stirs, and you freeze, having bitten your lip painfully. He mumbles something in his sleep, and the tip of the long nose twitches. The arm snakes around you, and he pulls you even closer. Even in his sleep he is crushing your bones, and you take a careful breath.

You close your eyes and search for something to ground yourself. And then it comes. The soft swirls of your magic rise in your mind and your heart, flooding suddenly cold fingers and feet, warming them up, soothing the pain, and you lift your hand and look at your palm.

Small golden globe is glowing in your hand, and then it falls apart, into small trickles that snake between your fingers, run through your forearm, tingling and caressing, through your shoulder and into the ebony strands of the King Under the Mountain. The wavy locks flutter, the gentle golden swirls caress his face, the beard, the cheekbones, tickle the tip of his nose. He nuzzles your skin and smiles in his sleep.

In complete astonishment you understand that your magic, the strange, uncontrollable and disobedient gift you have inherited from your grandmother's elicit lover, your magic that you have so little power over and the one that has not shown itself since the day you saved the King's life, your golden glow, capricious and feeble - is in love with Thorin Oakenshield.

You are holding your breath, bewildered and awed, and a small flicker of a new emotion quivers in your heart. And it is hope. A strange certainty overcomes you. Everything will resolve itself. Stars will align, the world will turn, and the new day will bring unravelment. Suddenly you feel warm, sated and sleepy, your body sliding into his embrace, your arms wrap around his neck, and you settle into the heat of his body and the smell of his skin. You bury your nose into his neck, rub it to the coarse hair under his jaw, and close your eyes. The sleep that envelopes you is sweet and peaceful.


	9. Chapter 9

EPILOGUE

Thorin closes his eyes, his cheek pressed to the soft skin of the healer, his body tired and sated. He is listening to her strong beating heart, the smell of her skin and some flowery fragrance mix and cloud his mind. Her breathing is light, and the sleep takes him.

There are no dreams, no nightmares. For the first time in his life his mind is in accordance, he feels whole and content. She is his, she has submitted to him, her body supple and tender. His competitiveness and possessiveness are mollified, he is mostly worried how he performed, but he is ecstatic, she obviously enjoyed him. She is so small and fragile, but also strong and responsive. He has seen how she looks at him, and he hopes it is azyungel, and for him it is all or nothing, black and white, the world is simple, and she is his.

And he will wake up in the morning, and she will be in his hands, and she will smile to him, and damn traditions, and he is taking her to Erebor, and will marry her, and even if there are no children, he feels whole for the first time in his life.

Something warm and loving strokes his face, tickles his nose, and he smiles in his sleep. He found his azyungel, his love, his heart, his yasith. She will be his, and he will be hers. Thorin sleeps, arms wrapped around the small body of his red haired healer, after the first of many nights, and his heart is at ease.


End file.
